


Gifts of Stone

by Jadzibelle



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Dean Says Yes, Destiel - Freeform, M/M, au from Point of No Return, season 5, unexpected sam/cas family/friendship!feels that just kinda snuck in there
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-12-11
Updated: 2013-12-13
Packaged: 2018-01-04 08:28:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,543
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1078792
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jadzibelle/pseuds/Jadzibelle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Inspired by this fantastic art: http://linneart.tumblr.com/post/68019363054 by linneart on Tumblr.  Dean says yes to Michael for all the wrong reasons.  Castiel doesn't understand until it's too late.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Boulders

Dean was exhausted.  Physically, mentally, every way a person could be exhausted, he was.  He felt it in his bones, an ache that never went away, a fragility that left him wondering _how_ every time he walked away from another smackdown without shattering completely.  The stones on his shoulders had been piling up; ashes first, landing light and soft as he held Sam in his arms and watched their house burn, piles of pebbles with every new hotel room, every new week or month he was left with a hundred bucks and orders to take care of Sammy above all else, the boulder that was his father’s parting words and parting gift...  They’d sunk inside, driven deep by Hell, filling his gut and his lungs and bowing his spine so that it ripped him apart inside every time he held his head high, chin up and shoulders back, a soldier for an impossible cause, the weight of the world hooked to his bones by liars and thieves in Heaven.

And Sam…  Sammy tried, tried to take the weight for him, couldn’t see that he was only adding to it.  Pride and anger and righteous indignation, marble and pumice and iron, thick and red like demonblood, and it was never enough, and too much.  Dean didn’t have the words to explain.  He never had- when he’d been younger, maybe, before they’d been choked out of him by a steady stream of ‘yes sir’, before they’d been bitten back so many times he’d chewed them to pieces that cut his gums and tore his throat and left him helpless and bitter and watching as a black-eyed temptress led his baby brother down the road of good intentions.

In all his life, the only one who’d ever lifted the weight, even for a moment, had been Cas.  An angel, his angel, the one who’d gripped him tight and raised him from perdition, who had looked at the bleak and blackened, torn and twisted, vile and vicious _thing_ that he had been, the demon he had been, and still seen something worth saving.  Who had pulled him through the bones of the Earth, through stone and ash too familiar and too foreign, and left him clean and new and branded in a hole in the ground.  Who had stood by him through trials and Seals, who’d sat on a park bench and shared secret truths- not about the universe, but about his own mind- who had risked everything, been caught, been punished, and in the end, still come to him to make amends, still thrown everything down on a roll of the dice at Dean’s pleading.  Who had died, and come back, and still had faith, who had stood shoulder to shoulder with him as the world came down around their ears.

Who had lost, lost so much, lost everything, because he’d put his faith in Dean.  Out of everything, that... that was the final stone.  The weight he couldn’t carry.  Seeing the light in his angel flickering out, seeing Castiel, Angel of the Lord slip further and further toward being a real Winchester, full of anger and loathing and loss...  He knew that feeling.  Knew it too well.  Knew that Cas was wondering why his best wasn’t good enough, why the people he’d put his trust in kept letting him down, and Dean couldn’t bear to watch it any longer.  The mess with Adam...  That was bad, but it wasn’t his breaking point.  Breaking Cas, that was his breaking point.

_“I gave everything for you, and this is what you give to me?”_

The words rattled around in his skull, pebbles, rolling to and fro, the last straw.  Because Cas deserved better, had always deserved better, and this was the best Dean could give him.  This was the only way Dean could give him anything at all.

Slipping away was easier than it should have been.  On his knees, spine curved, bent under too much for too long, head hanging limp on his neck, he closed his eyes and prayed.  It was funny; he’d only learned how to pray because of Cas, because he’d known Cas would be listening, because he’d finally found someone to have faith in.  Now, he prayed that it would be anyone else who heard.

“Took you long enough.”  He didn’t recognize the voice, but it didn’t matter- he recognized the tone.  Condescending, dismissive, full of pride and disgust.  Dean glanced up, and it stung, how much this angel’s vessel looked familiar.  Dark hair, electric blue eyes, scruffy- he wondered if it was deliberate.  Probably was; he’d noticed an incredible fondness for petty spite in the Heavenly Host.  “Are you ready?”

“I have a few conditions.”  One last time, Dean forced himself up, off of his knees, forced his shoulders square and his chin level.  “Before I say yes.  I have a few conditions, a few people whose safety you’re gonna have to guarantee.”  Sammy... Sammy was out of the question, and he knew it.  It burned, the trade he was making, the selfishness of what he was doing, but he was out of options, and he’d never been the man his father wanted him to be.  He’d never been able to protect Sam, not really, and now wasn’t really any different.

“Of course, of course.  Write a list, whatever.”  The angel seemed impatient, but Dean wasn’t going to be rushed, not on this point.

“Lisa and Ben.  You know who I mean?”  Dean watched the angel closely, eyes narrow.  There was a moment of silence, the angel’s attention clearly elsewhere, and he- it- nodded.

“Lisa Braeden, her son Ben Braeden.  We can make sure they’re protected.  Is that all?”

“Bobby.  You give him his legs back, you keep him out of harm’s way.”

“Surrogate father, got it.  Seriously, is that-”

“Cas.”

The angel stopped, expression twisting, like it wasn’t sure whether it wanted to laugh or sneer.

“You’re joking.”

Dean smiled, the split in his lip cracking open, and shook his head.

“Nope.  You take Castiel back.  Clean slate.  You take him back, you restore him to his former glory, whatever you have to do- he goes home, and he stays safe.  No matter what.  You take him back.”

“Castiel is a traitor.  There is no place for-”

“Then there’s no deal and no yes,” Dean snarled, taking a step forward, hands fisting at his sides.  “You hear me?  That’s the deal.  That’s my price.  You want me, you give Cas his life back.  Take it or leave it.”

The angel froze, face going blank- listening, Dean assumed.  Dean didn’t relax, didn’t step back, didn’t let his guard down.  The angel smiled, slow and smug, and held its hands out to its sides.

“Very well.  Castiel will be given a... clean slate, as you request.  He will get his life back.  As soon as you say yes.”

Dean closed his eyes, shoulders tightening still further.  There was so much wrong with this, so much wrong with the whole screwed up situation.  Still, the words echoed.   _“I gave everything for you, and this is what you give to me?”_ ...This was all Dean had, all he had left to give, and Castiel deserved better, but Dean could only offer what he had.

“Call him down.  I’m ready.  The answer’s yes.”


	2. The Most Fearsome Wrath Of Heaven

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Again, this story is inspired by this amazing art by linneart: http://linneart.tumblr.com/post/68019363054
> 
> Some of the dialogue in this chapter is taken directly from her work.

Vessels were so confining.  Michael shifted, rolling his shoulders in a futile effort to ease the pressure of flesh and bone against his energy.  It did very little to undo the clinging sense of confinement, the feeling that six pairs of wings- each large enough to wrap around a small town- were pinned down in a cage of calcium smaller than the Ark that had carried the Covenant.  Still, this body was more tolerable than any of the others he’d tried over the years, and at least it wouldn’t begin to dissolve under the pressure of his power.

He did need to do something about the plebeian garb it was wearing, however.  While his preferred armor would be far too conspicuous in these modern days, he could at least dress in something that bespoke _status_.  The vessel had such things, for his petty deceptions; the trip back to his waystation of choice was far too short a respite for Michael’s wings, but at least it was something.  He changed, using it as an opportunity to explore the range of motion available to him- limited, always so limited- and smoothed the lines of the suit coat down, watching himself in the tiny, cracked mirror that hung on the back of the door.  Such a pretty man, this hunter; Lucifer’s intended vessel might be larger, but Michael’s was far more aesthetic, and, if Michael had to guess, far more agile.  Speed would be his advantage, and balance, while Lucifer would have reach and force.

It would be a fair fight, much though Michael hated the notion.

He sensed the presence on the stair before his vessel’s ear caught the creak of a floorboard, and shook his head.  How preoccupied Castiel must be, to not feel Michael at such a range...  Preoccupied, and weak.  His Grace was little more than a candle’s flame, his wings scraps and shadow- it was _pitiful_.  He remembered when Castiel had rivalled the seven hundredth star, the one the humans called Rigel; he wondered how much pain it caused Castiel to use his wings in their current state.  He wondered how much of Castiel’s Grace had been poured into these vessels, how much of his brother’s essence was woven into the blood and bone he now wore.

And somehow, Castiel had missed what was right in front of him, despite that.  Perhaps dulled perception was a consequence of doubt.  Of betrayal.  It seemed only fitting.

The door opened, and Castiel froze, blinking.  Michael smiled, a small and subtle thing.

“I have to say, I’m impressed with you, Castiel.”

“...Michael?”  Disbelief colored the lesser angel’s voice, his eyes widening, his brows drawing together, and Michael could see the flare of color in his energy, pale blue shock that flowed into red and silver, rage and grief, razor sharp and poisonous.  Clearly, whatever he may have said to Dean about doubting him, Castiel hadn’t actually believed the mortal would bend.  It infuriated him, that Castiel could have such faith in one broken, dirty human, when his faith in his own kin had been thrown aside.  The anger rolled over him in a wave, and it was petty, it was small, when Castiel had brought himself so low, but Michael wanted to see him _hurt_.

He smirked, an expression that Castiel would have seen from Dean a dozen times, a hundred, confident and smug- and cruel, cruel in a way that Dean would have struggled with.

“It’s too bad,” he said, the words slow, deliberate, and he could see the grief win out over the rage, could see it crystallize, fractal lines of ice running through Castiel’s Grace, rising up along his vessel’s spine, running out from his heart, “He was in love with you.”

Castiel jerked back, eyes wide, looking as startled, as stung, as if Michael had reached out and slapped him.  Michael laughed, lips curving up in a smile that was more of a snarl, lowering his head to look at Castiel from between thick lashes, and took a step forward, sleek and threatening.

“If I’d known that you were the key to getting him to say yes, I’d have gone after you myself.”  Castiel gaped, and shook his head, and the confusion was violet and indigo, rippling through him.  “What, didn’t you know?  Didn’t you realize?  Or were you truly so blind that you couldn’t see how he looked at you?”

“I don’t understand.”  Castiel’s voice broke on the words, and Michael lashed out, catching Castiel by the throat and shoving him back against the wall, using exactly enough force to control him without damaging him.

“No?  Then let me spell it out for you.  You were his condition.  He said yes for _you_ , Castiel.”  Michael crowded into Castiel’s space, forcing his gaze, looming despite the nearly-equal height between their vessels.  “His final condition, the deal he struck?  Was that we take you back.  That we restore your Grace, give you a fresh start.  He traded himself to give you a chance to come home.”

“ _No_.”  The word was a whisper, an agonized refusal, and Castiel shook his head.  “No, I don’t believe you, he would not have been so foolish-”

“Oh, he was exactly that foolish,” Michael said, a faintly sympathetic smile slipping into place.  “Does it really surprise you, Castiel?  Dean Winchester sold his soul to give life to one being he loved, why is it difficult to imagine he might sell his body to do the same for another?”  Michael stroked his thumb over Castiel’s pulse point, the movement echoed by his power, and Castiel _shook_ , his tattered Grace roiling as it reached toward the contact and recoiled all at once.  “And really, his timing was excellent- you’re on the bare edge, brother.  If you’d slipped much further, we might not have been able to reclaim you.”

“I would rather Fall,”  Castiel bit out, and there were tears shining in his eyes, actual _tears_ , and that was satisfying, truly it was.  “I would rather Fall than see you use him to bring ruin down on this world.”

“Fortunately for us, he didn’t feel the same way.”  Michael grinned, boyish and charming.  “After all...  This is the best he could give to you.”  The verbal blade found its mark; Michael could see the realization dawn, and Castiel sagged in his grip.  “A word of advice, Castiel?”  He leaned closer, so close that his breath coasted over Castiel’s skin, his words a physical touch.  “Take what little he had to offer.”

He raised his other hand, pressed it to Castiel’s forehead, and brought his Grace to bear; power, the roaring heart of a thousand stars, the thunder of infinite heartbeats, the raw edge of the cosmos, poured between them, and Castiel cried out, head thrown back, a pale fraction of Michael’s energy escaping through his eyes, through his mouth, burning under his skin as Castiel’s Grace ignited.  His wings threw light, burned imprints into the walls as Michael’s power wrapped around them and made them whole once more, the air around him shimmering, simmering with heat so intense it cracked and threw thunder.

Then it was done, and Castiel was gasping, standing only by virtue of Michael’s hold as he shook and scrambled to find purchase with his fingers on the wall behind him.  He blazed in Michael’s sight, brilliant in spite of the silver-black glyph that hung in his core, and Michael stepped back, letting him go, letting him crumple to the floor.

“Welcome home, brother,” he said, and he spread his wings and vanished.


	3. Marble Heroes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Based on this fantastic art by linneart: http://linneart.tumblr.com/post/68019363054

Castiel drew a breath, and tasted charcoal and stardust.  It hurt.  Everything hurt.  Michael had not been gentle with him; he was scorched, inside and out, burns on his skin- at his throat, between his eyes- and beneath it, layered, imprinted on the energy that was his being.  It hurt, and he reveled in the pain, because it was a distraction.  It occupied him as he forced himself to roll over, to get his hands and his knees underneath himself, as he pushed himself up, shaking all the way.  If he held fast to the pain, he didn’t hear how clear the voices of his brethren were, didn’t sense the movement of living things for miles all around, didn’t feel the lightness of wings made whole.  If he held fast to the pain, he didn’t have to acknowledge that he had been restored.

And he didn’t have to face the cost of that restoration.

He pushed himself to the door, down the stairs, stumbling as though he were once again intoxicated.  He staggered to a stop in the library- the empty library.  Sam was absent; Bobby as well.  He thought he should be relieved- that they would not see him like this, that the moment of reckoning had been postponed, that he did not yet have to explain- but instead, their absence left him at a loss, aching and desolate.  It was strange, how much he wanted their company; how badly he wanted the comfort of Sam’s unreasoning optimism and Bobby’s paternal gruffness.  How desperately he wanted them there to share in his sense of loss.

It was new, this feeling, and he was fairly certain it was what Dean meant when he spoke of family.  The irony of coming to understand one of the most essential parts of Dean only now, when Dean was-

-Castiel’s chest tightened, feeling, too much feeling, swamping him, drowning him, and he gasped for breath, struggling to draw air that he didn’t need.  He was light and energy and power and Grace, he did not need to breathe- and yet he could not stop himself from trying, could not halt the sense of panic at the struggle.  He did not know what to do.  As had become his habit, he started to wonder what Dean Winchester would do, and the thought only worsened the frantic clawing in his chest.  It built up in him, something between pain and anger and beyond either, until he thought he might burst, until he had to move or he was certain he would fly apart- a cry tore loose from him, low and raw, and he flung Bobby’s desk into the wall with one hand, shattering it apart.

The crash brought him abruptly back to himself, and he stared at the wreckage, panting, hands shaking where they hung awkwardly at his sides.  This, falling apart, was not helping.  Dean would not fall apart; Dean would not give up.  Castiel knew this; he had stood in a room with him at the start of the end of all things and seen the determination in him.  Dean Winchester looked for the hidden option, the... ‘hail Mary pass’, and he committed himself to it as though it could not fail.  As though the only failing was not trying.

Except now.  Except now, when he had, inexplicably, stopped fighting.  Castiel couldn’t understand.  He could not accept it.  It was antithetical to the Dean he had chosen to follow.

And it was Castiel’s fault.  It had to be.  He had doubted.  He had failed Dean, had failed to find the solution Dean needed.  It was his inadequacy, not Dean’s.  He had allowed himself to indulge in his doubts, because Dean had not punished him for them, had not judged him for them, and the freedom to doubt, the freedom to be angry, was so new- but he had been irresponsible, he had been selfish.  He had not seen what power his doubts had.  Perhaps that was why his Father, his brothers, forbade them.  Dean had allowed Castiel the freedom to doubt him, and it had brought about his downfall.  If Castiel had not been so selfish, if he had not indulged-

His phone rang, and he fumbled for it, nearly dropping it.  The name on the screen made him flinch, but he accepted the call and raised the phone to his ear.

“Sam.”

“Cas!”  There was stress in Sam’s voice, and pain, barely restrained panic, and still somehow relief, and Castiel wanted to hang up the phone, wanted to crush it to atoms in his palm, because he did not deserve to have Sam take comfort in his presence.  “Cas, I don’t know how they found us, but they took Bobby, I don’t-”  and of course, that made sense, Dean would try to protect as much of his family as he could with his sacrifice.

“Sam.”  The repetition of his name brought Sam’s words to a halt, and Castiel closed his eyes, his head bowed low.  “I am sorry, Sam.  Dean...”  He couldn’t say the words.  He couldn’t bring himself to say it out loud, for all that speaking it would not make it more true.

“...”  The silence from the other end of the line felt like an accusation, and Castiel fought to keep from squirming, fought to keep still.  “Son of a _bitch_!”  Sam’s outburst was startling, and so very much like his brother.  It hurt.  “Cas...  Dude, what are we going to do?”  Sam sounded desperate, lost, and that even now, he spoke with some trace of faith, of hope, that Castiel might have an answer...

“I don’t know.”  Castiel swallowed, and squared his shoulders.  “I don’t know yet.  But I will fix this, Sam.  This is my fault, and I will do whatever I have to-”

“...No, Cas, this- this isn’t your fault, just, where are you, let me pick you up and we can figure this out-”

“I’m sorry, Sam.  But I will get your brother back.  I promise.”  He didn’t know how, but there was simply no other option.  Dean Winchester did not give up on the people he loved...  And Castiel would not give up on Dean Winchester.  He hung up the phone, cutting Sam off mid-word, and stretched his new-healed wings.  He had reached out and pulled Dean free once.  He would do it again.  Whatever it took.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was supposed to be the end of this story. I'm not 100% sure it actually is.


End file.
